


Crime and Punishment

by Dog_Bearing_Gifts



Series: Picking up the Pieces [1]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Gen, Police, Post-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 08:56:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14040675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dog_Bearing_Gifts/pseuds/Dog_Bearing_Gifts
Summary: After Ernesto's public confession, Hector has a choice to make.





	Crime and Punishment

_Knockknockknock._

Hèctor was closest, but he wasn’t sure he should answer it. Sure, he’d spent the past few hours in that house, and hadn’t felt like a stranger for a single minute, but he still wasn’t sure the house was _his_. Maybe he ought to let someone else get the door. 

_Knockknockknock_. 

The sound was more insistent this time, drawing a shout from elsewhere–Imelda’s voice, it sounded like–followed by rapidly approaching footsteps. A face peered through the window flanking the door. Hèctor didn’t immediately recognize it, but the blue officer’s hat needed no introduction. 

He flung open the door, and the face took on an immediate familiarity. “Oh–Officer! How, ah, nice of you to pay us a visit! Er–pay me a visit. I mean, this is Imelda’s house, but–” 

The officer gave him a flat look. “I’m not here about the unibrow, Señor Rivera.”

 “You….” It took a few seconds, and more than a couple of blinks, for the words to register. By that time, Imelda had appeared at his side. She slipped an arm around his waist. 

“Señora Rivera. I was hoping I’d catch you.” 

Hèctor finally caught up with the conversation. Not the unibrow. Not him at all, if Imelda was involved. Probably. “What–what _is_ this about?” 

“It’s about your grandson. May I come in?” 

**************

They set up at the kitchen table, sunlight slanting onto the floor and counters. Officer Gutierrez had brought a file, and laid out pictures. 

“You’ll be pleased to know we have de la Cruz in custody,” he said. “He’ll be charged with attempted murder of the living.” 

“That’s a charge?” The question was out before Hèctor could stop it, or reword it a little. “I just–it doesn’t seem like there’d be many chances for anyone to _make_ that a crime.” 

“It’s rare,” Gutierrez admitted. “I wasn’t even living, let alone dead, the last time it came up in court. But it is a _very_ serious charge.” 

Imelda frowned, looking through the pictures, most of which were various snapshots of Miguel being tossed off the arena. Hèctor still wasn’t certain Pepita didn’t despise him, but he still had to love that alebrije. That big, terrifying alebrije. “Miguel was cursed,” she said. “He would have died at sunrise, no matter what de la Cruz did. Are you sure the charge will stick?” 

“We have video evidence of him throwing your grandson off a building, Señora Rivera. I believe most departments call that ‘attempted murder.’“ 

“He tossed Miguel in a cenote, too,” Hector said. “Probably thought he’d just wait for sunrise.” 

“Two counts, then.” 

Imelda sat back as Gutierrez made a note. She didn’t smile, but Hèctor could tell she found the answer satisfactory. 

“He _will_ be charged,” Gutierrez said again. “There is no question about that. The only question now is that of your murder, Señor Rivera.” 

_Murder_. Applied to his death, the word still felt odd. It was the only one that filled in all the gaps, that explained the whole sordid affair and everything that followed, but after nearly a century of calling it an _accident_ or _bad luck_ or _yes, it was spoiled chorizo, you can quit laughing any time now_ , the word _murder_ still hit him like a bucket of cold water. “M-mine?” 

“Sì. It’s a bit of an interesting case. He never served time for it in the Land of the Living, so it falls under our authority now. However, it has been nearly a century. There’s no statute of limitations, strictly speaking, but because it’s been so long, we can drop the charges, if you prefer.” 

Imelda sat up, slamming both hands on the table. “ _Drop_ the _charges_? Are. You. _Kidding_? My husband was murdered!” 

Hèctor tried, unsuccessfully, to hide a smile. _Here we go._

“I want that man arrested! For everything! Murder! Attempted murder! That ridiculous jacket he thinks is so fine, his stupid smug smile–” 

“Falsifying a unibrow?” Hèctor suggested. 

She pounded a fist on the table. “If you find a _single photo_ of Ernesto de la Cruz wearing a unibrow _he did not earn_ , I want him imprisoned for it! I don’t know what your maximum sentence is, but he should serve _two_ of them, and I hope he–”  

“With all due respect, Señora Rivera.” Hèctor didn’t expect Gutierrez’s slightly raised voice to cut through Imelda’s growing tirade, but she stopped, hand still curled into a fist, mouth open in a word she didn’t get to say. “First of all, unibrow falsification….is more of an in-the-moment crime. You wouldn’t arrest a man for public drunkenness fifteen years after the fact.” 

She reluctantly took her seat, folding her arms across her chest. “ _You_ wouldn’t,” she muttered. 

“More importantly, as the victim’s former widow, your word does carry some weight. However, the final decision belongs to the victim himself.” 

Whether it was the word _victim_ or the sheer amount of power it evidently carried that caught him off guard, Hèctor wasn’t sure. All he knew was that for a moment, he couldn’t speak. He could only stare. 

“You were the one murdered,” Gutierrez said, as if it needed explaining. “The decision is yours.” 

Imelda reached over and took his hand, bringing Hèctor’s thoughts into something resembling coherence. He looked down at his lap. Her fingers covering his, closing just enough to let him know that she’d hold on, and hold on as long as he needed. After almost a hundred years, he had this again. Not just Imelda, but her family. _His_ family. From the moment they brought him back to their home, Hector had never doubted he was one of them. A hundred years of nothing, and now he had everything. 

Did he really need to press charges? 

He indulged the thought a moment. He had Imelda. Cousins. Brothers and sisters. And soon–probably very soon–he’d have Coco. If he walked away without pressing charges, he’d still have all of that. Ernesto would get the news, probably while sitting in some dank and lightless cell somewhere, and wonder about it. Wonder how his victim, his erstwhile friend, could forgive so completely. 

Then Hèctor met Imelda’s gaze. 

There was fire behind those eyes. Restrained, held in reserve, but still ready to burn down anyone she deemed worthy. And Hèctor knew without asking, without needing to be told, that in Imelda’s eyes, Ernesto was more than worthy of her rage. 

She’d lost a husband that night. 

He’d known that—he’d always known that—but the sheer force of what Ernesto had done hit Hector all at once. He wasn’t the only one who had lost everything. How long had Imelda waited, worrying, savings evaporating by the day before she clawed her way out of the mess he’d left behind? How many times had Coco lain awake at night, wondering why her papà never came home? Had she ever decided it was something she did, something that made the letters stop and the music vanish?

He wasn’t the only one who had suffered. Imelda had put the family back together, and she’d done it beautifully, but that didn’t remove the scars from when it had been shattered. Just thinking about the damage done to Imelda’s family–to _his_ family–filled him with anger so strong and potent he could almost taste it. 

His hand closed over Imelda’s. “Sì,” he said. “I want to press charges.” 


End file.
